Do you remember Mrs. Taylor, the one who used to work at the library?’
My mother wanted to know over the phone the other day.
>Vaguely,’ I said with a more-than-vague idea as to what she was driving
at. Every time my mom starts playing the memory game it means another
acquaintance is coming to Italy. The neighbor whose aunt
she brings lasagna to when the woman is ill, the one who is desperately seeking
her family tree in a town near Treviso, my old au pair who force fed me French
in middle school-they all crop up sooner or later. And since my mother is
marvelous and I’m in the neighborhood, they invariably come to town and want to
take me to dinner.
>When does
she arrive?’ I asked, deciding to cut to the chase. I like librarians.
>Oh, no. She doesn’t have a trip planned. But her grandson just moved to
Romania. He’s gone there to be a
journalist. I thought maybe you could write to him.’
>Why did you think that?’
>Well,’ she started, maybe the two of you have something in common.’
>I’m sure we have loads in common, Mother. But if you must fix me up to
be pen-pals with somebody’s grandson could you at least weed out the useless
artist types? I can do neurosis all by myself, thank you.’
My mother apparently heard my protest with only the ear she had pressed
to the phone because she continued to insist that he was a very nice man who
was finally realizing his dreams by coming to Europe. And although I wanted to
be bitter with her, I couldn’t help but smile. Everyone is always risking
self-actualization by coming to Europe-except, of course,
Europeans.
I sit and
watch them arrive, quite willing, in fact, to delight at their newness and
doubt at their dreams. Some travelers collect historical tidbits before their
trip and then expect you to know what percent of the population was wiped out
during the plague of 1647. Others couldn’t care less-they’ve come to the Boot
to buy shoes and can’t wait to get shopping. Either way, I invariably introduce
them to buffalo mozzarella. Then, with the certainty of a matchmaker, I smugly
watch them fall in love during antipasto. For some crazy reason, it thrills me.
They, of
course, are thrilled about that and everything else. Oh, how lucky you are to
live in Italy’ is the refrain no one can refrain from repeating.
Not that I blame them. In most dictionaries Italy’ is just a synonym for infatuation.’ And the
country certainly makes for a great first date.
So take my
advice and tell your visitors how right they are. Let them congratulate you as
if you’ve won the lottery-or somehow found an all-expense paid ticket to
Wonderland. They don’t want to know about the sweaty small stuff. Or hear that
the pigeons they feed are really just rats with wings. Nor do they care that
Italian politicians earn seventeen times what the average citizen makes.
They’re on vacation. And Italy is the epitome of beauty-why not overlook tiny
inconveniences like insufficient water pressure in showers and low water levels
in toilet bowls? So what if smoothly running scotch tape simply cannot be had
in this country. You live in Italy, you lucky dog. No need to bark about banalities.
But then,
one day a friend will finally come from across the sea. One who’s name you
remember and who’s history is written on your heart. Mine is Kim. Our thirty-year friendship sprouted when she and I
brought similar pink lunch boxes to kindergarten. Little did I know then, that
she would turn into a let-me-live-abroad’ language fiend like me. When I made my permanent move to Italy, Kim left San Fransisco for London to make her long-term home
there. When I started working in journalism, she got a job creating crossword
puzzles for a games magazine-which ultimately explains why the woman can absolutely
whip my butt in Scrabble.
We visit
each other every few years and always meet at our mothers’ homes for board-game
marathons if we happen to be on the same continent at Christmas. Ours is a
wonderfully uncomplicated relationship and no one can tempt me toward a truer
laugh. Last week, she came to Italy with her fiancc Ric to make up for the fact that
I won’t be at their wedding in October.
>My mother
is trying to fix me up with a writer in Romania,’ I told them at dinner the first night.
;A writer?’ Kim groaned. She can’t be
serious.’
;Why? What’s wrong with a writer?’ Ric wanted
to know.
;Nothing,’ she said. Except you
could patent that thought as the worst idea in the world. Linda needs a
practical person.’
>Yes, but
does she like practical people?’
>Excuse me,’
I interrupted, do you think you could stop talking about me as if I weren’t
here?’
>Sorry,’
they both said together.
Then Ric continued. Seriously, Linda. Life as a single person becomes
a whole lot easier once
you decide what you want. When I was single, I realized that there are two
types of women in the world-dizzy girls and bossy girls. I like the dizzies.
Figure out which type you fancy and you’re 50 percent closer to finding the
person you’ll love.’
Hmm. Perhaps it was the fact that we were eating capricious’ pizzas in
a square with a saint’s name. Or maybe it was the understated Englishness with
which he made the distinction. But I found myself nodding in agreement. It takes
a brave man to use such arguable adjectives to prove such a sound point.
>Well, Ric,’
I sighed. You’re talking to a mighty bossy dizzy-girl. And I want a man who
won’t get himself electrocuted while fiddling with red and blue wires. Does
that count as a category?’
>You want a
handy-man.’
>Yes,’ I
admitted. When you live in a fifteenth century palazzo someone has to
keep the walls from crumbling.’
My friends
decided my preference was a healthy one, laughed and were over it. Then we
ordered chocolate tartufi and changed the subject. It was a lovely
night.
This week’s fatto bello, however, was actually something that didn’t
happen rather than something that did. Kim and Ric were here for four whole
days and neither one so much as insinuated how lucky I am to live in Italy.
At breakfast
on the morning of their departure, Kimmy walked into the kitchen with a towel
still wrapped around her head. She filled a ridiculously tiny coffee cup to the
brim, sipped it and then plopped down in an armchair, This shower has horrible
water pressure. Just like in London.’
>I know,’ I
agreed. I hate it.’
>It’s a
travesty,’ she replied.
I smiled. The
woman invents crossword clues that most people in the world will not be able to
decipher. She is, hands down, the smartest damn dizzy girl I know.
